


i can feel you crawling in my mind (and i can't dig you out)

by DisasterLesbean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellamione Cult Discord Game, Dark!Hermione, Discord: Bellamione Cult, F/F, Torture, dark au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 13:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18367079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterLesbean/pseuds/DisasterLesbean
Summary: Five days. It took Harry and Ron five days to get them out of there. A lot can happen in five days.





	i can feel you crawling in my mind (and i can't dig you out)

**Author's Note:**

> idek i got truth or dare and dark as a prompt and this happened

It’s easy to pretend everything is fine. 

Harry’s recovering from years of constant demands. The war had lasted longer for him than most. Really since that first night, since Voldemort etched his way into Harry’s soul. Harry’s been at war his entire life and now he’s learning what it means to live for himself. He smiles more recently. He’s quicker to laugh.

Ron is back to the friend she misses. She feels like she lost him for a while. Lost him to Lavender’s mechanizations, lost him to the horcruxes, lost him to his unrequited affections. He’s back to the boy she misses. He’s taken up with Lavender again but Lavender has become a different person. They all have. She no longer isolates Ron and encourages his better side. 

She feels like she has them back. The fractures and hurt mending and their bonds are renewed.

Everyone’s happy, she’s happy, it doesn’t wipe away this underlying feeling. 

She doesn’t think about it. She doesn’t dare give it a name. It’s a slick sickness, an affirmation that something is deeply wrong. She stops thinking about it and continues about her days.

It’s always there. 

It oozes beneath her skin. Alive but so dead. 

She doesn’t think about it.

Harry and Ron don’t return her seventh year and she spends it mostly alone. She spends some time with her other friends but it isn’t the same. They aren’t Harry and Ron. They are happy, they’re moving onto great things. She needs to finish Hogwarts unlike them. She needs some resolution. She hopes it helps.

It doesn’t. 

She spends her seventh year mostly alone. Those bonds they had repaired grow thin with the growing distance. They don’t intend the distance, she knows this. They are moving on with their lives, they’re focused on doing their best. Becoming their best selves. She still feels left behind. She feels like an artifact that no longer has the same shine it used to. She knows she should mention it to them. She should tell them she feels alone and that it triggers her panic and paranoia, she doesn't. She doesn’t because they’re fine and she should be as well. She shouldn’t find herself unable to look at mirrors and waking up to scratches around her barely sealed scars.

The nightmares are nonstop. She knows Harry and Ron have nightmares, they’ve written to her about them. Even the others have nightmares. They all have them. She tells them she has nightmares but she doesn’t elaborate. She doubts she needs to. They were at the mansion too. They were down in the basement for days while she was upstairs. They have enough information to guess. 

It’s not the nightmares that scare her. They’re to be expected. She was a pivotal part of a war, of course she’d have nightmares. It’s the little things that build up.

“Ms. Granger, I’m afraid all I can do if give you more calming draught.” Madam Pomfrey sounds worn out and sad. Treating children of war wears on the older woman.

“This isn’t an issue?” 

“We can’t do anything about what you do during your sleep. We could restrain you-” Hermione’s heart stops at even the mention of restraints. “I don’t see that as a viable option considering you look like you’re about to throw up.” 

“What if I bleed out in my sleep?” 

“We’ll give you enough calming and sleep potions to hopefully prevent you from scratching at it. Have you remembered anything else since our last meeting?” McGonagall upon learning what had transpired at the mansion ordered her to speak to Madam Pomfrey at least weekly. From what she knows, Madam Pomfrey doesn’t tell McGonagall anything Hermione confides. As such, she’s probably the person who knows the most about Hermione. Including the blank spots in her memory. Pomfrey assures her it’s likely because Hermione passed out due to pain. She says it’s a mercy, that Hermione probably escaped some of the pain.

It doesn’t settle right with Hermione. She doesn’t believe it.

The blank spots are too abrupt. Too dark. She doesn’t remember a single thing during them. Not dreams, not hallucinations, not even the feeling of the room or voice of Bellatrix. It’s just empty darkness. 

“No, still blank.”

“I don’t think you will ever end up remembering anything I’m afraid.” Madam Pomfrey is glad. She’s believes her theory is panning out and is happy Hermione had been able to avoid some of the pain. Hermione doesn’t want to break that happiness, that hope and complete belief. She doesn't voice those building doubts. 

The little things build. 

The scratching at her scars fades as Madam Pomfrey promised. The steady stream of potions she consumes must deaden her ability or desire in her sleep. She’s grateful for that at least.

Then it starts during the day. 

Scratching at her wounds in the dark, nightmares plaguing a victim of war, these she could tell herself were normal. She knows they aren’t, she can feel it. The buzzing under her skin, the chaotic flow thrives during the night. Her heart is always beating a wild pace before she drinks her potions. Her heart knows what her mind cannot. Her body floods with fear, fear at what is happening. Fear at that secondary feeling, the content sickness building beneath her flesh. 

The blanks start during the day and she feels real fear. 

The first time it happens she wakes up in the other side of Hogwarts. She’s alone. She isn’t sure how she got here. It takes her a few moments to realize where she is, who she is. She throws up in a bush when she realizes it’s the same sharp blankness. The black that overcomes her in an instant. She drags herself back to her quarters on shaky legs and thinks. 

She doesn’t know what’s happening but something isn’t right.

She isn’t right.

She decides to write Harry and Ron when she gets a letter. It’s from Harry of course. He’s happy, so happy. He’s healing and admits he asked a girl out. Someone training to be an auror along with Ron and him. He’s finally happy after so many years. She can’t be the one to ruin that. She doesn’t want to be the destructive force that drags Harry back into the life he’s been burdened by. She can figure this out. She’s the brightest witch of her age. She can handle black outs.

It doesn’t stop that growing fear. The knowledge that this is possibly beyond her own understanding. 

She starts going to Hogsmeade, visiting other places. She tries dragging herself out of this encompassing dark. The stone walls she used to find welcoming become oppression. The ever present chill in Hogwarts becomes bone shaking. She seeks distraction in the town. She finds it. The pub is always open and Hermione frequents it. It doesn’t press in on her like Hogwarts does and the alcohol warms her blood. She doesn’t go to Honeydukes, too many memories of people no longer here. She finds she can’t quite stomach sweets anymore.

She walks through the shops when she needs the distance from Hogwarts and the approaching sense of dread. She finds herself at home in a bookshop. It’s crammed with books on every subject, more than the building can hold really. It reminds her of muggle thrift shops. The covers are all worn and peeling, spines cracked. The pages are yellowed and the shops smell musty. Hermione finds herself settling there. 

She used to prize pristine books. She loved the untarnished covers and the ability to keep spines smooth. Now, she has more respect for the thorough use of books. The more worn the more well loved they were. 

It becomes a pattern. 

She’d get a drink at the pub then spend her afternoons in the shop. The bookkeeper gets to know her well. She anticipates Hermione’s arrival and has stacks of book she thinks Hermione would enjoy. She always does. 

“How do you always know?” She’s also the only person that can drag a smile out of Hermione recently. McGonagall used to be able to but recently Hermione has felt unnerved by the headmaster’s presence. Only Harry and Ron’s infrequent letters can cheer her up. 

“I know everything.” It’s sly, the curve of her lips give way to humor. “Also, you narrate when you read.” It’s blunter and more truthful. Hermione laughs because she hadn’t realized she speaks aloud. She can feel her ears turn pink and curses her body’s reaction, especially when the bookkeeper winks and goes back to sorting. 

So she develops a bit of a crush on the bookkeeper. Harry teases her for an entire letter when she tells him. She supposes it’s fair since she’d teased him over the auror he’d asked out. She learns Harry’s now girlfriend’s name is Olive. She apparently amazes Harry everyday and doesn’t treat him like a holier-than-thou hero like everyone else. She’s apparently muggleborn like him and is happy to talk about what’s going on in both the muggle and magical world. They both apparently love the Beatles. She tries not to gag at that and fails. She does insult his taste in music however.

He asks her about her developing crush and she finds herself flustered much to his pleasure.

_You’re always so composed ‘Mione, it’s nice to see you floundering like the rest of us mere mortals._

As much as he teases her, he’s there for her. Although his letters remain sparse and that abandoned feeling clings to the cavities of her heart, he’s there. Ron tells her to just ask the bookkeeper out. She ignores him and pines during her stays at the bookshop.

It distracts her just as she had hoped when she first starting going to Hogsmeade. No distraction can hold back the unyielding tide. 

The little things are no longer little things. They’re big, too big. Bigger than Hermione can handle alone. She can’t ruin Harry and Ron’s progress, their healing. She can’t burden them. 

She comes back to herself with blood speckles on her hands and knows she’s waited too long. She runs to Madam Pomfrey as quick as she can.

The medical wing is empty until McGonagall appears.

“Hermione, what are you doing here?” Ever since the war it’s been Hermione, not Ms. Granger. It used to warm her heart, it made her feel at home with McGonagall. It made her feel safe and as if she was an equal to someone she looks up to. It doesn’t make her feel that way anymore. Now, it makes her twitch uncomfortably and look for the nearest exit. McGonagall no longer makes her feel safe.

“I am looking for Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’m afraid she’s taken her leave. The war took its toll on her. It’s been hard for her. She’s decided to leave her students in better hands. Her replacement will be here later today.” Madam Pomfrey can’t be gone. She’s one of the few people she feels comfortable near anymore.

Everyone makes her skin crawl.

Ginny had bumped her shoulder the other day and it had her out of sorts for hours. Neville had sat down next to her at the great hall and she immediately wanted to leave. 

Madam Pomfrey is safe, comfortable. She knows about Hermione, she doesn’t have to explain anything. If she wants to talk she can talk to her. Now she can’t. “What about our weekly meetings?”

“You can meet with her replacement. If you don’t feel comfortable with that you could meet with me instead.” It’s meant to be comforting but it feels predatory. She can see the feline hunter in her headmaster. The vicious stalking and sadistic interest. She waves her off and retreats. Away from those beady eyes, away from the sensation that overcomes her.

She loses her only outlet, the only one she trusts with sensitive information. 

She trudges on through the school year. If she can just make it out of here it will be fine. She just needs to see the year through. 

She wakes dripping in dark magic. It choking and addicting. She wants to scrub it off and savor it. It’s not just any dark magic, it’s a familiar kind. It’s jagged and coercive. It feels like the locket. 

She doesn’t stop to consider the possibilities. N.E.W.Ts are coming up and she has to study. She can’t stop to think about what it all means. She can handle it on her own. 

The blackouts happen more. Instead of once in a while they become weekly, then daily. When it becomes several times a day she caves. She needs to tell someone. 

She doesn’t feel comfortable with many people anymore.

“I think it’s the effects of a lasting spell.” The bookkeeper sounds certain. She doesn’t call Hermione crazy, she doesn’t threaten to tell McGonagall or St. Mungos. She sees that Hermione is struggling and is offering her support. She starts rooting around for books, flitting around her shop with experience from working there for likely years. “These are all the books I have about manipulation spells. Warning, there are at least three on the imperius curse so it might get a bit dry.” 

“Thank you.” Hermione means it. She’s soothed Hermione’s mind easily with only a few nice words and select books. She dares to cover the bookkeeper’s hand with her own, a sign of gratitude should it fall flat. It doesn’t. 

The bookkeeper smiles crookedly and leans forward. “Anything for you.” Hermione wonders if she’s imagining the flirtatious undertones. She doesn’t want her own hopes and imagination to get away from her. “Don't burn yourself out. I know how hard you’re studying for the N.E.W.Ts and now this added study.” Hermione wants to take Ron’s advice, just ask her out. Her gryffindor courage only goes so far. 

“I can handle it.” 

“I’ve no doubt about that, after all, you are the brightest witch of your age.” It’s teasing, nearly mocking. She knows how much Hermione hates the title and she rolls her eyes at the bookkeeper. 

“How could I forget?” 

She studies the books for weeks. She reads them cover to cover. She reads and rereads them and learns nothing pertaining to her situation. Nothing to help fix this mess. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, the year draws to a close. 

She doesn’t know what she wants to do now. What she wanted at the beginning of the year and now are vastly different. 

She’d watched the way the current government oppresses magical creatures and it made her angry. It was so similar to how the Death Eaters had treated muggle-borns. She wondered if they’d noticed. She doesn’t think they did, they just didn’t care. She was disgusted at the ministry. The blatant disregard they had for magical creatures irked her. 

That was the beginning of the year. This is now.

Now, she just can’t find that burning passion in herself. That all-consuming desire to right the wrongs. She feels aimless.

She’s able to go anywhere, do anything. A war hero is in high demand. 

She spends some time after Hogwarts doing nothing. It’s a blur. Her blackouts meshing with her inactivity in an episode of mindlessness. It terrifies her. It terrifies her almost as much as the fact she almost never hears from her friends and how little she writes them. It terrifies her the same way she feels disconnected. She should have joined the ministry, she should still feel that desire. It’s simply gone, like her memories. That comparison is what drives her to do something. She needs to do something before that blankness overtakes her life and leaves her an unfeeling shell of who she used to be.

The worst is what she does feel between the pockets of emptiness. 

It’s no longer beneath her skin. 

She goes to the bookshop. 

“Couldn’t stay away from me?” She couldn’t. The bookkeeper is one of her people and she unlike some, she doesn’t leave her people behind. 

“I missed the terrible smell.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Anything new?” She doesn’t mean to have gotten so much closer to the bookkeeper but her body has a mind of its own. She doesn’t want to be obvious but maybe Harry and Ron are right. Sometimes she just has to take a leap.

“Of course. What exactly are you looking for?” She is drawing closer as well, closer than necessary. Closer than perhaps appropriate.

“Dinner?” Bold, brave, gryffindor. She’s rallying, dragging every terrible motivational speech she’s heard to steady her.

“I thought you’d never ask.” It’s a little off, something in the back of her mind prickles. She doesn’t give it the opportunity to psyche her out. 

She writes Harry and Ron for what feels like the first time in weeks. Hermione tells them how she asked the bookkeeper out and how she’d accepted. They respond enthusiastically and her heart hurts with their distance. They’re so excited for her and she misses them. She promises to write about how her date goes and they write back up about a meet up. She agrees despite the urge to decline. Part of her wants to refuse to see them just as she avoided her friend in Hogwarts, part of her wants to refuse for a reason she can’t specify. Despite this, she accepts.

The date goes well. Beyond well really. She’s become quite close to the bookkeeper during her last year at Hogwarts and the few letters they had exchanged during that blurry period of time. She’s known how dry and prickly the bookkeeper’s humor is, how sharp her grin can be and how loud and unrestrained her laugh is. 

It’s different outside of the shop. It’s different when she can lean over and kiss the bookkeeper as she’s desired to do for months. It’s different when Hermione sees her book on the bedside table and knows it really is a passion and not just a job for the bookkeeper. Their entire relationship is different when she can call the bookkeeper hers and finally feel at peace. She’s the most safe, the most comfortable when she’s with the bookkeeper.

When she offers Hermione a job at her shop, she of course agrees. 

It’s something to do while she figures out what she wants. Something to keep her from returning to a dissociated state of life. Something that keeps her closer to the bookkeeper. 

Harry and Ron have contacted some of the others to join them for their meetup. It becomes a celebration of sorts, a party. They’re celebrating Harry and Ron’s status as aurors, Hermione’s new job, and all those who returned to Hogwarts for completing their seventh year. Hermione has mixed feelings on it. There’s a sense of wrongness she can’t shake but she’s eager to see everyone again. 

It’s fine, except it’s not. 

She’s spent the day haggling trying to get a rare book on healing herbs for the shop and is tired by the time she gets home. She immediately knows someone is intruding. Her wand is in her hand as she looks around.

“It’s just me.” Hermione’s shoulder bunch as she turns towards McGonagall. She shrouded in the shadows of Hermione’s flat but her eyes are bright like a cats. Bright and analytical. She measuring Hermione’s movements. McGonagall is looking at her like she’s a mouse ripe for ripping apart.

Her body is screaming at her that this is wrong, her mind rattling at its confines. 

“McGonagall.” She had insisted Hermione call her Minerva when she had left Hogwarts, she met her halfway. “What brings you here?” Her heartbeat is racing, pounding against her ribs. Pounding like it had during those nights at Hogwarts. 

“I think you know.” It only sets her fear off further. She doesn’t feel safe here, with her. 

“I don’t.” McGonagall closes her eyes before opening them and stepping out of the shadows.

“I was afraid of that too.” Her eyes are watery, Hermione can see that now. Her smile is wobbly and broken. She paints a sad figure. She almost looks like she once had, a concerned friend. 

Hermione knows not to let her guard down.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Hermione, when were you going to tell me you’ve been blacking out?” Her heart stop. Her breathing shutters and her head fogs. “You weren’t, were you? You weren’t going to tell me. You weren’t even going to tell the boys.” 

“I’m handling it.”

“How?”

“I'm figuring it out.”

“How Hermione?” She takes another step forward and Hermione’s grip tightens around her wand. McGonagall doesn’t take another step. “You don’t have an answer. You aren’t figuring it out, you just think you are. You’ve pushed it aside.”

“How do you know I blackout?”

“I didn’t, not really. Pomfrey wrote down notes. She kept note that you blacked out events during your torture but she didn’t have anything about current blackouts.” Hermione accidentally confirmed it, she curses herself for falling for McGonagall’s games. 

“What do you want?” McGonagall’s face twists at her sharp words.

“To help you. You need help.” 

“I’m handling it.”

“No you aren’t!” She’s never heard McGonagall yell at her like that, with desperate fury lacing her words. “You write Harry and Ron about a bookshop you work at and the bookkeeper you’re dating.”

“You went through my letters?” Hermione’s voice is colder than she’s ever heard it. She’s angrier than she’s felt in months, years even. Liquid rage is coursing through her veins instead of blood she once had.

“Hermione, what’s the name of the bookshop?” Hermione stops her movement, her feet about to take her closer towards McGonagall. Her thoughts stall. “You don’t know the name of the shop you’ve been going to for months? That you work in?” Sensing her opening, McGonagall pushes further. “What’s the bookkeeper’s name? What does she look like Hermione?” 

It hurts. 

Her head is thundering, the worst headache she’s ever experienced. It throbs and begs. Begs to be set free, begs for the pain to end. 

“I-I don’t know.” Admitting hurts worse. She shouldn’t have said it because now it’s out. She blacks out and doesn’t even know where she is most of the time. Who she’s with.

Her brain is tearing itself apart. That’s what it feel like. Two opposing forces pulling and tugging and ripping. Wrestling for dominance.

“Hermione.” It’s so soft and careful she wants to lean into it, let those words wash over her. Part of her does but not all. Not even most. No, most wants to to finish the words. Most of her wants to strike down the threat. “You are the strongest witch I’ve ever known. You are in control. You can come back from this.” Hermione wants to ask what she has to come back from. What she’s done that she doesn’t know but it seems McGonagall knows. She needs to know what McGonagall is holding back. She can’t ask, she can’t open her mouth without the words spilling forward.

McGonagall wraps her arms around her and pulls her in for a tight hug. Her arms barricade her in, her body surrounding Hermione. Her weight supporting Hermione’s shaking body. She doesn’t know what is happening but she has some ideas. Hermione leans into her, tears dripping down McGonagall’s neck. She bites her lips hard, harder even. She draws blood but she refuses to speak the words. She won’t speak the words and give this sickness its desire.

The green flashes between their bodies. The pulse that replaces McGonagall’s. A light that is there and gone. McGonagall’s body sags against hers and she screams. She didn’t speak the words, she didn’t. She held her tongue and silence the voice clamoring for death. It’s not fair, she was stronger, but she still failed.

She jerks upright in bed, her body wracked with sobs and sweat. She looks around her room before throwing herself out of bed and crawling to where McGonagall had been. Nothing, no body. No dark magic. She checks her wand with shaky hands and finds no residue. 

She needs to see McGonagall. She needs to see for herself that everything is okay. She needs to confirm it was just a terrible nightmare. She apparates outside of Hogwarts and races towards the Headmistress’ office. 

“Hermione?” McGonagall’s voice stops her near sprint towards the office, she’s at the base of the stairs.

“Professor?”

“I’ve told you to call me by my name.” A familiar admonishment, one entirely like McGonagall. Hermione charges her in an uncharacteristic hug. Tighter than the nightmare even, tight enough to wipe away the feeling of McGonagall’s body sagging into hers. “What’s wrong?”

“Nightmare.” 

“I see, have you been taking your potions?”

“Of course. I’ll see about adjusting the amount I take.” 

She leaves as soon as she pulls herself together. She didn’t kill her. She didn’t kill McGonagall. She feels the thrum of happiness. McGonagall had felt like she used to. She felt comfortable and safe in McGonagall’s embrace in a way she hadn’t in months. 

She gets to work and hesitates. She hadn’t killed McGonagall but the nightmares wasn’t wrong about somethings. The bookshop had an old wood sign reading “Morgana’s Bookshop” and she let out a breath. She’s been too spaced to retain the information but it’s real. It has a name. It’s real.

“You going to stand out there all day?” The bookkeeper’s eyebrow is arched with haughty judgement and Hermione smiles easily. They’re working at organizing books on flying when she makes the decision to ask.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re hilarious.” She rolls her eyes at Hermione. “We should let the Daily Prophet know you’re so funny pet.” 

She doesn’t clarify that she was serious. Embarrassment creeps up on her so she changes the subject. She’ll just be careful to avoid using names until the bookkeeper mentions it again.

She doesn’t have more nightmares like that after she ups her potion dosage. She is grateful for that. She’s blacking out less as well. She isn’t sure what’s happening but she thinks it’s getting better.

Harry brings Olive and Ron brings Lavender to the party. Unfortunately the bookkeeper couldn’t make it so she goes alone. Some of their other friends bring significant others but most don’t. She isn’t sure what that means about them. 

It’s fun. Well and truly fun. At least it should be.

The fact of the matter is she’s uncomfortable most of the time. This party feel out of sync, not right. It doesn’t align with her day, with her life. It isn’t who she is. She doesn’t want to sit here with people she doesn’t really care about and that makes her feel on edge. The entire night has her tense and ill at ease. 

She should have listened to her instincts and refused the invite. Now she’s stuck here. She just wants to go back to the bookkeeper, back to her world. 

“‘Mione, we’re gonna play a game.” She wants to go but she begrudgingly smiles and agrees. They’re in a circle when she sits down next to Harry. They’re all varying degrees of inebriated but Hermione decided to remain sober for this occasion. 

“What are we playing?” 

“Harry was talking about truth or dare like it was a muggle concept so we have to prove him wrong.” Ron answers. “Not that there’s anything wrong with muggle games.”

Truth or dare. Her head doesn’t split. It doesn’t scream. She does, she did. 

_“Let’s play a game muddy.” She swings at Bellatrix when she’s distracted and is slammed back down into the floor. “No manners!” She hopes she’d grow used to the pain but everytime Bellatrix casts another cruciatus it tears through her just the same. “Rude insolent pests. All of you! The red headed coward won’t stop yelling. He acts like a hero but he isn’t. I opened the door and told him to go ahead and save you. He chose himself.” She singsongs the last bit, sure to dig the knife into her side deeper._

__

__

_“You’re lying.” Hermione knows her friends wouldn’t leave her behind. They’d help her._

_“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Care to find out?” She isn’t sure what Bellatrix wants from her. She isn’t sure if it’s a rhetorical question or a legitimate question. Getting it wrong leads to more pain. She has to be careful to do what Bellatrix wants or it leads to more pain. She wishes she didn’t cave to her torturer so quick but she can’t help it. She can’t stand the blinding pain of the cruciatus._

_“Yes.” She’s unsure if she was supposed to answer but considering she isn’t immediately tossed into another cruciatus she assumes she did well._

_“Good girl.” She can’t help the pleasurable thrum, the knowledge that she both did good and won’t get hurt. “You know, muggles think they invented it. Like they could make anything worthwhile. We made it. Even more accurately, yours did.” She caresses Hermione’s face and it makes her flinch uncomfortably. Bellatrix is being uncharacteristically kind and it unnerves Hermione. “The gryffindors thought they should have a game, a game to test bravery. They were the ones who first thought of it but all the houses liked the idea. The ravenclaws liked the battle of wills, the hufflepuffs liked the group bonding, and the slytherins catalogued all the information given to them. It’s a wizarding game that the muggles watered down into a bastardized drunken mess. So pet, truth or dare?”_

_The last thing she had expected was for the intimidating witch to want to play truth or dare. Then again, she loves her games. She’s let Hermione think she’d let her go, she’s let her think she’s had a chance several times already. Games are just another sadistic outlet for her. “Dare.” She can’t do truth. She’s balancing the story that the sword is fake. She doesn't know what magical truth or dare entails, she doesn't know if she can lie or not. Dare is dangerous. Dare is what muggles avoid but she can’t pick truth._

_She feels the magic that goes over them and knows that magical truth or dare is definitely different than muggle truth or dare._

_“A risky move. I could dare you to go kill your friends downstairs.” Hermione’s eyes widen in fear. “I won’t though, that’s a later game dare. We don’t wanna rush things do we?” A nail drags down the side of Hermione’s face and she swallows the whimpers, it’s nothing compared to what Bellatrix could do. Hermione doesn’t want to encourage her. “I dare you to run.” She’s off of Hermione freeing her to run. She runs._

_Bellatrix likes her games._

_When she comes back to, hours have gone by and her body aches. Her throat is raw from screaming but she shifts forward. She isn’t with the others, she’s still upstairs._

_“You’re awake.” It’s a purr and it unsettles Hermione. “Your turn.”_

_“Truth or dare?”_

_“Truth.” Of course Bellatrix picks truth. Where Hermione can’t pick truth, Bellatrix can’t pick dare._

_“Why do you care so much about the sword?”_

_“It’s supposed to be locked in my vault. If it’s out, my Lord will be very upset.” It only further confirms what she’s gathered from Bellatrix’s earlier tantrum. Bellatrix has been more gathered, has been since they started this game. “Truth or dare?”_

_“Dare.”_

_“Run.” She doesn’t want to. Bellatrix steps away from her, silent permission. She doesn’t want to run. If she runs she’ll be caught. She’s tired of the pain but Bellatrix is watching her. She’s waiting for her to run. So, she runs._

_She doesn’t pass out this time. Seems like it’s a one time deal. She’s shivering on the floor, waiting for Bellatrix’s next prompt. It doesn’t come. “Truth or dare?” She takes a guess and knows she’s right when Bellatrix smooths her hair down. Not pain. She chose right._

_“Truth?”_

_“Why do you hate me so much?”_

_“Oh I don’t. I did hate you, I thought you were just another weak mudblood. I underestimated you, look how well you’re holding up. I’ve seen pure-bloods sooner their dinner. Should have seen the Longbottoms, pathetic.” Bellatrix insults her but compliments her. Bellatrix hurts her but comforts her. A slick feeling of disgust wedges itself near her heart when she feels soothed by her torturers words. Bellatrix must see her reaction because her smile is more twisted and victorious than it has been yet. She keeps running her hands through Hermione’s hair and she wants to scream. She wants to scream because she doesn’t want Bellatrix to stop. The disgust grows with every beat of her heart. “Truth or dare?”_

_She doesn’t want to run anymore. She can’t, she won’t. She wants to beg but knows Bellatrix doesn’t want her begging, not now. “Dare.”_

_“Run.” The magic pulls at her, commands her. It tells her to do at she’s been dared, to fulfill the challenge. To be brave. She’s tired and doesn’t want to be caught again. She grits her teeth against the magical compulsion and doesn't run. “Good girl.” She hates that those two words affect her so much. She didn’t think she’d feel embarrassment in this situation but she feel it burn her up._

_“I thought you wanted me to run.”_

_“I want you to do what I say but I want you to stay just as much.” Bellatrix tugs her into her lap. Half her body propped against Bellatrix’s thighs and half still shivering on the floor._

_“Truth or dare?”_

_“Truth.”_

_“How do you feel about me now?”_

_“Possessive.” Bellatrix’s hand is curled around the back of her neck and she doesn’t dare break the moment, the peace Hermione finds herself in. The break in screaming and pain. She thought she knew what Bellatrix wanted from her but now she doesn't. She supposes she’ll ask next time._

_“Truth or dare?”_

_“Truth.” It slips out without her meaning to. She tenses and prepares to pull away but Bellatrix’s hand tightens._

_“You can only pick an option three times before you’re forced to pick another.” Bellatrix explains it to her when she doesn’t have to. “You’re thinking about not answering. Trying to lie the same way you refused the dare. I warn you, it’s harder to lie than to refuse a dare. Not to mention the consequences.” The threat is clear. Lie or refuse to answer and this moment breaks. It’s been near two days and she’s tired._

_“Is the sword fake?” It’s soft but belies danger. She wants to be braver, be a gryffindor, but it’s been two days._

_“No.” It’s pulled from her, a truth she shouldn’t have let be aired. Bellatrix’s nails retract from her neck and she’s soothed. She closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath._

_“Did you pull it from my vault?” She isn’t waiting until the next turn, it seems the game is over._

_“No.”_

_“No?”_

_“We found it in a lake.”_

_“You’re sure that’s the truth?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You’ve done so well. Your turn.”_

_“Truth or dare?”_

_“Dare.” A change in pattern. Of course, if Hermione was forced to change her patter so would Bellatrix._

_“I dare you to not use the cruciatus again.” She expects Bellatrix to lash out, punish her in a different way, she doesn’t expect the cackle._

_“You could have dared me to let you go, perhaps to not even hurt you.”_

_“You might have refused those.” She lies for the first time since they started this game, lies because she hadn’t thought. She just didn’t want to burn again._

_“This is where it gets fun pet.”_

She remembers. It doesn’t split or tug. Not anymore. It’s not beneath her skin anymore, it hasn’t been in a long time. 

She thought it was two forces tugging at each other and she was right and wrong. They were fighting, trying to win dominance. She thought she could just win. A snap to, quick and efficient. It’s a slow takeover. A merging. Who she thinks she is and who she is. Two identities fighting until the other is no more. She isn’t sure when it happened, when one came out victorious, but it did happen. Perhaps it was when she woke up with blood on her hands, perhaps it’s when she murdered McGonagall, maybe it was the first time Bellatrix laid eyes on her. 

She doesn’t remember everything. Not her adventures during seventh year nor the blurry period after but she remember the mansion. 

She remembers all of the mansion.

Five days. It took Harry and Ron five days to get them out of there. A lot can happen in five days. A lot did happen in five days. Pain and comfort, brutalities and softness. It confused her then it didn’t. The game continued over and over, for days. Pain if she picked wrong, pain if she displeased Bellatrix. So much comfort when she picked right. She got good at picking right. So good. She became two Hermione’s. The one who would do whatever made Bellatrix happy and the one who did whatever made her friends happy. She would always cannibalize herself for those she loved. Bellatrix knew this and inserted herself in that role. She became Hermione’s prime source of comfort.

She got to know Bellatrix in those days more than any person has ever known another. For every truth carved out of Hermione she got a truth back from Bellatrix. As much as Bellatrix knows Hermione, Hermione knows Bellatrix.

She can see Harry trying to ask her what’s wrong but she doesn’t see him, not anymore.

_“Remember pet, this is our game. If anyone else tries to play it with you, kill them.”_

The words come from her mouth this time but it still lights up the same brilliant green. 

She collects their wands when she’s finished.

She leaves the house of corpses and follows a familiar path.

Morgana’s bookshop doesn’t exist. There’s a house where her feet take her. She enters. 

Bellatrix lights up when she walks in, satisfaction and relief. The man next to her has a similar expression but with much less relief. He oozes satisfaction and dominance. 

A long awaited victory.


End file.
